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121
FRIENDS AND NEIGHBOURS.
123
E. P. Seeley.
DIED IN THE LEBANON, ENGAGED IN MISSION WORK, OCTOBER 25TH, 1881.
High on the hills we laid her in repose,
And left our treasure, but we little wist
How soon the ranges of deep amethyst
That roll up heavenward to the Syrian snows
Would yield to this one jewel where it glows
Midway 'twixt blue and blue. Beloved of Christ,
Not vainly was thy pure life sacrificed
For Him who led thee bravely to the close.
And left our treasure, but we little wist
How soon the ranges of deep amethyst
That roll up heavenward to the Syrian snows
Would yield to this one jewel where it glows
Midway 'twixt blue and blue. Beloved of Christ,
Not vainly was thy pure life sacrificed
For Him who led thee bravely to the close.
Where'er among the vales of Lebanon
Between the olives and the mulberries
We catch a glimpse of Him they crucified,
We see thee ever walking at His side,
And by the fuller sunlight of thine eyes
We know thy heart its happiness has won.
Between the olives and the mulberries
We catch a glimpse of Him they crucified,
We see thee ever walking at His side,
And by the fuller sunlight of thine eyes
We know thy heart its happiness has won.
124
The Painter's Home-Going.
IN MEMORIAM G. Q. P. TALBOT, OBIIT MAY 28TH, 1885.
God calls us when our eyes can bear the sight
Of all his lovelinesses—lest our mind
Should by the sudden beauty be smit blind—
To that new land, where neither sun gives light
Nor moon, but glowing love hath banished night
And sorrow with the night. ‘Look not behind,
But go: thine eyes are ready—thou shalt find
Power to behold, with joyance infinite.’
Of all his lovelinesses—lest our mind
Should by the sudden beauty be smit blind—
To that new land, where neither sun gives light
Nor moon, but glowing love hath banished night
And sorrow with the night. ‘Look not behind,
But go: thine eyes are ready—thou shalt find
Power to behold, with joyance infinite.’
Thereon, without a sigh the painter rose,
Yea, with a smile he laid his palette by;
Long had he looked beyond the sunset bars,
Had felt a pureness whiter than the snows,
Had heard the immortal music of the stars,
And knew that love for beauty could not die.
Yea, with a smile he laid his palette by;
Long had he looked beyond the sunset bars,
Had felt a pureness whiter than the snows,
Had heard the immortal music of the stars,
And knew that love for beauty could not die.
125
Auguste Guyard.
BARMOUTH.
Here lies a man who toiled with pen and spade,
Who went forth sowing, and with all his might
Wrought, from the dawn, until the sunset light—
And so from barren Rock an Eden made—
Who, sworn all truth and all things pure to aid,
Of all things beautiful the Gentle Knight,
Still faced the storm, still battled with the blight,
And plied unmurmuringly his Heavenly trade.
Who went forth sowing, and with all his might
Wrought, from the dawn, until the sunset light—
And so from barren Rock an Eden made—
Who, sworn all truth and all things pure to aid,
Of all things beautiful the Gentle Knight,
Still faced the storm, still battled with the blight,
And plied unmurmuringly his Heavenly trade.
To this high crag, beloved of him, he gave
His out-worn body, trusting so the weed
Of some wild saxifrage would kindlier grow
Above his ashes laid in peace below.
He little thought that from his hermit grave
Would bloom, for aye, Love's universal seed.
His out-worn body, trusting so the weed
Of some wild saxifrage would kindlier grow
Above his ashes laid in peace below.
He little thought that from his hermit grave
Would bloom, for aye, Love's universal seed.
126
A Peaceful End.
CROSS SYKE, 1886.
God calls His well-beloved in various wise,
Now with a shock that rends the Temple wall
So swift, the soul before the tower can fall
Flies scared above the ruin: now, her eyes
Almost familiar grown with Paradise,
The faithful watcher hears the angel call;
While some scarce seem to wait for death at all,
Just fall asleep and wake with Heaven's surprise.
Now with a shock that rends the Temple wall
So swift, the soul before the tower can fall
Flies scared above the ruin: now, her eyes
Almost familiar grown with Paradise,
The faithful watcher hears the angel call;
While some scarce seem to wait for death at all,
Just fall asleep and wake with Heaven's surprise.
And such wert thou—so gently didst thou pass
But that thine eyes irrevocably set
On that transfiguring glory, could not look
Our way, we had not guessed thy pure life's glass
Was run, but rather deemed thee with us yet,
Thy face to smile a moment from thy book.
But that thine eyes irrevocably set
On that transfiguring glory, could not look
Our way, we had not guessed thy pure life's glass
Was run, but rather deemed thee with us yet,
Thy face to smile a moment from thy book.
127
E. R. and F. S. S. B.
DROWNED WHILST SAILING ON DERWENTWATER IN A SQUALL, SEPTEMBER 9TH, 1886.
From the dark deeps of this our endless woe,
To those dark deeps that stopped such manly breath,
Like one in fear, who, halting, listeneth
If any call, our hearts flit to and fro,
Your voices sound not, but one voice I know—
It is the solemn sovereign voice of Death:
“There is a world beyond this world,” it saith,
“There is a deep to which thou canst but go.”
To those dark deeps that stopped such manly breath,
Like one in fear, who, halting, listeneth
If any call, our hearts flit to and fro,
Your voices sound not, but one voice I know—
It is the solemn sovereign voice of Death:
“There is a world beyond this world,” it saith,
“There is a deep to which thou canst but go.”
Untimely lost! and only back to come
With speechless mouth, calm faces, sightless eyes,
Well have ye ridden out Earth's wildest gale,
Companions still with Christ aboard ye sail,
A ship of life, whose port is Paradise,
And freighted full of love ye steer for Home.
With speechless mouth, calm faces, sightless eyes,
Well have ye ridden out Earth's wildest gale,
Companions still with Christ aboard ye sail,
A ship of life, whose port is Paradise,
And freighted full of love ye steer for Home.
128
John Richardson.
CUMBERLAND POET AND SCHOOLMASTER, ST. JOHN'S VALE.
APRIL 30TH, 1886.
O never clad in academic gown,
To wisdom led the simpler cottage way;
By nature tended till thy head was grey,—
The heart of nature grew into thine own;
And whether 'neath Helvellyn's moorland brown,
Along by glittering Bure thy steps would stray,
A poet-angler's, or, on market-day,
Among the yeomen of our village town,
To wisdom led the simpler cottage way;
By nature tended till thy head was grey,—
The heart of nature grew into thine own;
And whether 'neath Helvellyn's moorland brown,
Along by glittering Bure thy steps would stray,
A poet-angler's, or, on market-day,
Among the yeomen of our village town,
Above thy estate thy soul did ever soar,
Beyond thy mortal sight thine eyes could see
And the poor scholars at their upland school
Learned of thee this—the Poet's golden rule—
That eyes and hearts were given to man to be
On earth the gatherers of a heavenly lore.
Beyond thy mortal sight thine eyes could see
And the poor scholars at their upland school
Learned of thee this—the Poet's golden rule—
That eyes and hearts were given to man to be
On earth the gatherers of a heavenly lore.
129
Life-boat Heroes.
THE UPSETTING OF THE ST. ANNE'S LIFEBOAT. DECEMBER, 1886.
Lost in the passionate surges of the sea,
Lost in the moonwhite waters and the wind,
Our hearts that follow after them, shall find
Their souls unhurt where'er their bodies be.
For they have out-faced Death, and they are free,
Free with the name of Heroes, and the mind
Of Him who died to succour human kind,
For life they gave their own a willing fee.
Lost in the moonwhite waters and the wind,
Our hearts that follow after them, shall find
Their souls unhurt where'er their bodies be.
For they have out-faced Death, and they are free,
Free with the name of Heroes, and the mind
Of Him who died to succour human kind,
For life they gave their own a willing fee.
Their babes may wail, their wives and lovers weep,
Sad tides may drift their treacherous boat ashore
And moan along the melancholy sands;
But when the rocket leaps with faithful hands
I know strong hearts will pull as stout an oar
And breast a fiercer storm for those who sleep.
Sad tides may drift their treacherous boat ashore
And moan along the melancholy sands;
But when the rocket leaps with faithful hands
I know strong hearts will pull as stout an oar
And breast a fiercer storm for those who sleep.
130
Life through Death.
THE COLLIERY EXPLOSION AT ST. HELENS, WORKINGTON. APRIL 19TH, 1888.
Deep in the earth's dark womb that teemed with death,
From morn till eve the brave men laboured on,
No stay nor rest the desperate task had won,
But still they fought the fierce cave's fiery breath;
Came forth a spell at sundown, saw the heath
And vale and sea burn glorious, then cried one:
“Better to bide above, our work half-done,
Than back return to fight and fail beneath.”
From morn till eve the brave men laboured on,
No stay nor rest the desperate task had won,
But still they fought the fierce cave's fiery breath;
Came forth a spell at sundown, saw the heath
And vale and sea burn glorious, then cried one:
“Better to bide above, our work half-done,
Than back return to fight and fail beneath.”
“Nay,” answered others, “hark, our bairns and wives
Call to us, ‘Save the pit and save our bread!’
Half work is no work for our hands to do.”
And down they went, the quick to join the dead,
The flame-blast broke, and God's clear voice rang thro'—
“Who labour thus and lose shall save their lives.”
Call to us, ‘Save the pit and save our bread!’
Half work is no work for our hands to do.”
And down they went, the quick to join the dead,
The flame-blast broke, and God's clear voice rang thro'—
“Who labour thus and lose shall save their lives.”
131
Ned Brown.
KILLED AT HIS POST, THORNTHWAITE MINES, 1889.
You knew Ned Brown, no kinder truer hand
E'er plied the pick, and found beneath the earth
Laborious bread. Our Father knew his worth:
He keeps New Year in Heaven, our Fatherland;
No more beneath the stars at work's command,
His steps shall ring, his cheery voice make mirth,
Nor shall he, home returned at morning's birth,
For some friend's sake forego the sleep he planned.
E'er plied the pick, and found beneath the earth
Laborious bread. Our Father knew his worth:
He keeps New Year in Heaven, our Fatherland;
No more beneath the stars at work's command,
His steps shall ring, his cheery voice make mirth,
Nor shall he, home returned at morning's birth,
For some friend's sake forego the sleep he planned.
But still between the Derwent and the hills
That rise against our golden gleaming west
His honest tread shall sound upon the road,
And they who sink the shaft, and seek the lode,
Shall hear Ned's voice come sounding 'mid the drills,
“Fall at your work, boys: falling so is best.”
That rise against our golden gleaming west
His honest tread shall sound upon the road,
And they who sink the shaft, and seek the lode,
Shall hear Ned's voice come sounding 'mid the drills,
“Fall at your work, boys: falling so is best.”
132
The Poet's ‘Lilian.’
IN MEMORY OF S. E. at SHAWELL.
OCTOBER 14TH, 1889.
Come to the grave, and tell her we have met,
Bid her come forth, and smile once more, once more;
But ah! the deep earth and the fast-closed door
And the green grass with tears, not dewdrops, wet!
Dear soul, whose laughing eyes were ever set
To fill the dark with light, to make with store
Of simple kindness for the rich and poor
A crown of joy, thou hast thy coronet.
Bid her come forth, and smile once more, once more;
But ah! the deep earth and the fast-closed door
And the green grass with tears, not dewdrops, wet!
Dear soul, whose laughing eyes were ever set
To fill the dark with light, to make with store
Of simple kindness for the rich and poor
A crown of joy, thou hast thy coronet.
And we, who stand and sorrow without words
Because one more of those, who through life's span
Brightened the earth, has passed beyond recall,
We say, “She once was ours, she is the Lord's,
She whom the poet sang of, ‘Lilian,’
Sings now in Heaven and smiles upon us all.”
Because one more of those, who through life's span
Brightened the earth, has passed beyond recall,
We say, “She once was ours, she is the Lord's,
She whom the poet sang of, ‘Lilian,’
Sings now in Heaven and smiles upon us all.”
133
Mary Stanger.
FIELDSIDE, KESWICK, FEBRUARY 5TH, 1890.
Child of the brother to that generous man
Who, vowed to Death, bequeathed his friend release
From trivial care, and gave the Muses ease,
And set laborious Wordsworth in the van—
You knew ‘Nurse Wilsey,’ coaxed old ‘Clogger Dan,’
Climbed unreproved on Southey's genial knees,
Watched for the bard's homecoming through the trees,
And, wreath in hand, to crown the Laureate ran.
Who, vowed to Death, bequeathed his friend release
From trivial care, and gave the Muses ease,
And set laborious Wordsworth in the van—
You knew ‘Nurse Wilsey,’ coaxed old ‘Clogger Dan,’
Climbed unreproved on Southey's genial knees,
Watched for the bard's homecoming through the trees,
And, wreath in hand, to crown the Laureate ran.
Bright shone the sun, the Crosthwaite bells rang clear,
When blue-eyed Sara and that Rydal maid,
The gentle Dora, tended you as bride.
But now another bridal morn is here,
Christ in the heavens has called you to His side,
And all the vale is rolled from sun to shade.
When blue-eyed Sara and that Rydal maid,
The gentle Dora, tended you as bride.
But now another bridal morn is here,
Christ in the heavens has called you to His side,
And all the vale is rolled from sun to shade.
Mary Stanger, only daughter of William Calvert of Windybrow, and niece of Raisley Calvert, Wordsworth's benefactor, remembered well her going down to Greta Hall to welcome Robert Southey on his return from London after his appointment as Laureate and told me how she helped to weave the crown of laurel which his children then placed upon his head. At her marriage Sara Coleridge and Dora Wordsworth were bridesmaids.
134
Last of the Dorothys that Rydal knew.
GREEN-BANK, AMBLESIDE.
Last of the Dorothys that Rydal knew
In those drear days of old, when gathered round
The morning table, Catherine was not found,
Nor Thomas, sleeping both beneath the dew,
Thy face was then so radiant, grief withdrew,
Joy came, the children played on Rydal Mound,
New hope sprang up like flowers from out the ground,
Birds sang again and life and laughter grew.
In those drear days of old, when gathered round
The morning table, Catherine was not found,
Nor Thomas, sleeping both beneath the dew,
Thy face was then so radiant, grief withdrew,
Joy came, the children played on Rydal Mound,
New hope sprang up like flowers from out the ground,
Birds sang again and life and laughter grew.
Not thine to lend the poet heart and will,
Not thine to be a soft perpetual voice
To keep the father's soul for ever young
And e'en in death to speak a daughter's tongue.
Rather in poor men's memories thine the choice
To make the name of Wordsworth fragrant still.
Not thine to be a soft perpetual voice
To keep the father's soul for ever young
And e'en in death to speak a daughter's tongue.
Rather in poor men's memories thine the choice
To make the name of Wordsworth fragrant still.
Mrs. Harrison of Green Bank or Scale How, Ambleside, was born October 27th, 1801, at Branthwaite, Cumberland. Her father, Richard Wordsworth, an attorney at Whitehaven, was the cousin of the Poet. Dorothy Wordsworth at the death of her father and mother came in 1813 or 1814 to Rydal Mount and was welcomed almost as an elder daughter into the Rydal family, then sadly diminished by the recent deaths of little Catharine and Thomas Wordsworth.
For some six years she remained at the Mount, the third Dorothy beneath her cousin's roof. Afterwards she went to Ulverston, and there married Mr. Benson Harrison of the Lund in 1823.
In 1827 “beautiful Mrs. Harrison,” as she was called, came back into the Ambleside neighbourhood and for the next sixty-three years was a gracious presence of active benevolence in the midst of a people who have never forgotten that she was the last of the Rydal Dorothys, and who felt that with her there passed away the strongest tie that still remained to bind them to the Rydal Poet's home.
Truly of her it may be said:—
“That an old age serene and bright
And lovely as a Lapland night
Has led her to the grave.”
And lovely as a Lapland night
Has led her to the grave.”
Her remains were laid to rest in the Ambleside Churchyard on February 25th. The day was a day of cloudless sunshine as brilliant and as warm as a fine May day. The bells of the Church tower had been muffled, and as their six single strokes tolled slowly forth in melancholy cadence, it was almost impossible for the listener not to hear the words they said of sorrowful farewell, “Good-bye, old Friend, good-bye.”
135
Good-bye, Old Friend, Good-bye!
THE FUNERAL, FEBRUARY 25TH, 1890.
Light on the land, but darkness with it dwells,
Though gladlier never blushed the birch hard by
Nor Bratha's alders to a bluer sky
In rosier fulness shone; for muffled bells
Ring up the Vale their sorrowful farewells,
And with a human heart they seem to cry,
While those six words, “Good-bye, old friend, good-bye,”
Float forth and sob to silence on the fells,
Though gladlier never blushed the birch hard by
Nor Bratha's alders to a bluer sky
In rosier fulness shone; for muffled bells
Ring up the Vale their sorrowful farewells,
And with a human heart they seem to cry,
While those six words, “Good-bye, old friend, good-bye,”
Float forth and sob to silence on the fells,
Good-bye, old friend, good-bye! the people move
Like a dark flood toward the churchyard ground,
The hymn is sung, the wreath is left to fade;
But ninety years of graciousness and love
Were never yet within earth's bosom laid,
Thou still art here, for all the sad bells sound.
Like a dark flood toward the churchyard ground,
The hymn is sung, the wreath is left to fade;
But ninety years of graciousness and love
Were never yet within earth's bosom laid,
Thou still art here, for all the sad bells sound.
Mrs. Harrison of Green Bank or Scale How, Ambleside, was born October 27th, 1801, at Branthwaite, Cumberland. Her father, Richard Wordsworth, an attorney at Whitehaven, was the cousin of the Poet. Dorothy Wordsworth at the death of her father and mother came in 1813 or 1814 to Rydal Mount and was welcomed almost as an elder daughter into the Rydal family, then sadly diminished by the recent deaths of little Catharine and Thomas Wordsworth.
For some six years she remained at the Mount, the third Dorothy beneath her cousin's roof. Afterwards she went to Ulverston, and there married Mr. Benson Harrison of the Lund in 1823.
In 1827 “beautiful Mrs. Harrison,” as she was called, came back into the Ambleside neighbourhood and for the next sixty-three years was a gracious presence of active benevolence in the midst of a people who have never forgotten that she was the last of the Rydal Dorothys, and who felt that with her there passed away the strongest tie that still remained to bind them to the Rydal Poet's home.
Truly of her it may be said:—
“That an old age serene and bright
And lovely as a Lapland night
Has led her to the grave.”
And lovely as a Lapland night
Has led her to the grave.”
Her remains were laid to rest in the Ambleside Churchyard on February 25th. The day was a day of cloudless sunshine as brilliant and as warm as a fine May day. The bells of the Church tower had been muffled, and as their six single strokes tolled slowly forth in melancholy cadence, it was almost impossible for the listener not to hear the words they said of sorrowful farewell, “Good-bye, old Friend, good-bye.”
136
James Lappin.
LATE CHAIRMAN OF THE LIVERPOOL STOCK EXCHANGE.
OCTOBER 25TH, 1890.
Here let white-handed Commerce weep and bend
With purest-hearted Honour o'er the bier;
A Prince of all integrity lies here;
Who from the dawn to the swift daylight's end,
Himself for others willingly would spend;
Who walked with Justice, sworn to persevere,
With Love and Reverence holding man so dear,
They could not over-reach him or offend.
With purest-hearted Honour o'er the bier;
A Prince of all integrity lies here;
Who from the dawn to the swift daylight's end,
Himself for others willingly would spend;
Who walked with Justice, sworn to persevere,
With Love and Reverence holding man so dear,
They could not over-reach him or offend.
Long as the sea breathes blessing to thy Town,
Thou mistress of the Mersey's fruitful tide,
Let this man's fame be blown toward the West
And borne back Eastward: let his name abide,
Truth's jewel, in thine uncorrupted crown,
Hope's star upon thy mighty merchant breast.
Thou mistress of the Mersey's fruitful tide,
Let this man's fame be blown toward the West
And borne back Eastward: let his name abide,
Truth's jewel, in thine uncorrupted crown,
Hope's star upon thy mighty merchant breast.
137
William Greenip, the Village Naturalist.
DIED AT KESWICK, NOVEMBER 2ND, 1890.
God sometimes fills a poor man's patient heart
With His own reverent love and constant care
For all the things He hath created fair,—
Birds, flowers, the wings that fly, the fins that dart—
And therewithal by Nature's winsome art
Leads him to heights of philosophic air
Where clamour dies, Heaven's ether is so rare,
And bids him walk with gentleness apart.
With His own reverent love and constant care
For all the things He hath created fair,—
Birds, flowers, the wings that fly, the fins that dart—
And therewithal by Nature's winsome art
Leads him to heights of philosophic air
Where clamour dies, Heaven's ether is so rare,
And bids him walk with gentleness apart.
Friend! such wert thou: the Newlands valley dew,
The star o'er Grisedale's purple head that shone,
Were not more silent, but each stream and glade,
Each bird that flashed, all dusky moths that flew,
All flowers, held commune with thee. Thou art gone.
And Nature mourns the tender heart she made.
The star o'er Grisedale's purple head that shone,
Were not more silent, but each stream and glade,
Each bird that flashed, all dusky moths that flew,
All flowers, held commune with thee. Thou art gone.
And Nature mourns the tender heart she made.
138
Robert Graves, the Village Weaver.
1891.
Here lies a humble weaver, one who wove
Well, till the mill-wheel clacked and clanged no more,
Then ate the simple bread God sends his poor,
And ever held it manna from above
Fit for an angel's gathering. Long he strove
To help towards Heaven the friends about his door,
Versed in his Bible and the holy lore,
They learn, who up the path of duty move.
Well, till the mill-wheel clacked and clanged no more,
Then ate the simple bread God sends his poor,
And ever held it manna from above
Fit for an angel's gathering. Long he strove
To help towards Heaven the friends about his door,
Versed in his Bible and the holy lore,
They learn, who up the path of duty move.
A Sabbath teacher, teaching line on line;
Through him our youth to gentleness were brought
And gentleness learned wisdom: not a child
But as it passed looked up at him and smiled.
When Death shall cut our web, may life have wrought
As fair a garment, Robert, as was thine!
Through him our youth to gentleness were brought
And gentleness learned wisdom: not a child
But as it passed looked up at him and smiled.
When Death shall cut our web, may life have wrought
As fair a garment, Robert, as was thine!
139
Joseph Hawell.
FEBRUARY 20TH, 1891.
God has called many following the sheep
Some to be kings and princes among men,
And you He called; and Skiddaw's hollow glen
Mourns for its bravest shepherd fallen asleep;
But we who knew you, still your memory keep,
And at the shearing-time, beside the pen,
Though gone for ever from our mortal ken,
Your cheery voice will call us up the steep.
Some to be kings and princes among men,
And you He called; and Skiddaw's hollow glen
Mourns for its bravest shepherd fallen asleep;
But we who knew you, still your memory keep,
And at the shearing-time, beside the pen,
Though gone for ever from our mortal ken,
Your cheery voice will call us up the steep.
For you have climbed the road that leads to Heaven
The simple road of toil and self denied,
Of duty done to the far wandering flocks
In dewy cold, hot noons, and stormy even;
And somewhere He, Whose feet among the rocks
For us were own, shall lead us to your side.
The simple road of toil and self denied,
Of duty done to the far wandering flocks
In dewy cold, hot noons, and stormy even;
And somewhere He, Whose feet among the rocks
For us were own, shall lead us to your side.
140
A. L., Derwent Bank.
JULY 13TH, 1891.
Gone from the flowery bank beside the mere!
No more to feel the purple copses ring
With wild March melody, nor wide to fling
Her casement for the wakening dawn, and hear
The Greta to impetuous Derwent bear
Its music and its mourning. Never Spring
To simpler heart did consolation bring,
Nor Summer brush from tenderer cheek a tear.
No more to feel the purple copses ring
With wild March melody, nor wide to fling
Her casement for the wakening dawn, and hear
The Greta to impetuous Derwent bear
Its music and its mourning. Never Spring
To simpler heart did consolation bring,
Nor Summer brush from tenderer cheek a tear.
For thou didst love the seasons, and thy mind
Was tuned to all the year's vicissitude:
The Spring time bade thee hope, Midsummer wrought
Large sympathy with being, Autumn brought
Its joy of generous giving to thy mood,
And Winter kept thee hospitably kind.
Was tuned to all the year's vicissitude:
The Spring time bade thee hope, Midsummer wrought
Large sympathy with being, Autumn brought
Its joy of generous giving to thy mood,
And Winter kept thee hospitably kind.
141
J. D. Sedding.
IN HOLY TRINITY CHURCH, SLOANE STREET, 1891.
A rosy pillar 'neath a roof of blue,
So seemed your soul's upbuilding, then there came
The wind of Death upon your heart's fierce flame
And passion for the good, the fair, the true;
Your house of life was ashes; but for you
These roseate pillars and their roof proclaim
To all who here shall call upon Christ's name,
Death breaks the house, but sets the soul in view.
So seemed your soul's upbuilding, then there came
The wind of Death upon your heart's fierce flame
And passion for the good, the fair, the true;
Your house of life was ashes; but for you
These roseate pillars and their roof proclaim
To all who here shall call upon Christ's name,
Death breaks the house, but sets the soul in view.
From noble font and shining pulpit stair,
From bronze-wrought angels, and rich-carven stone,
And that dead Saviour gently laid to rest,
One voice to all the centuries shall attest
That he, who planned this shrine with loyal care,
Knew, work for God outlived the grave alone.
From bronze-wrought angels, and rich-carven stone,
And that dead Saviour gently laid to rest,
One voice to all the centuries shall attest
That he, who planned this shrine with loyal care,
Knew, work for God outlived the grave alone.
Mr. J. D. Sedding was engaged on the completion of the Church of Holy Trinity, Sloane Street, London when in the spring of 1891 he was suddenly called to his rest.
142
To the Memory of Oliver Heywood.
MANCHESTER, MARCH 17TH, 1892.
There are some lives that never sure should end
While pain and anguish dwell beneath the sun,
And heart-ache needs compassion: thine was one,
High-souled and gentle, sympathetic friend!
To thee the city did her sorrow send,
The poor and fatherless to thee did run,
All came unto thy mercy's gate, and none
Found thee too full of business to attend.
While pain and anguish dwell beneath the sun,
And heart-ache needs compassion: thine was one,
High-souled and gentle, sympathetic friend!
To thee the city did her sorrow send,
The poor and fatherless to thee did run,
All came unto thy mercy's gate, and none
Found thee too full of business to attend.
Now thou art laid beneath the quiet sod,
The sweetest flowers that ever gladdened sight
Shall make the silence fragrant o'er thy rest,
Few mark thy place of slumber, so is best—
For thy good deeds did ever shun the light;
Done for Christ's sake, known only unto God.
The sweetest flowers that ever gladdened sight
Shall make the silence fragrant o'er thy rest,
Few mark thy place of slumber, so is best—
For thy good deeds did ever shun the light;
Done for Christ's sake, known only unto God.
143
Joe Cape, the Clogger.
FEBRUARY 25TH, 1893.
No more that veteran figure shall we know,
Nor hear th' industrious hammer rap and rap,
Nor see him fashion heel or mould the cap,
And set the beaded nails in shining row,
Nor watch the alder wood to fashion grow
By knife upon his leathern-aproned lap;
Death, that doth sometimes come with shoulder-tap,
Smote down the clogger with a cruel blow.
Nor hear th' industrious hammer rap and rap,
Nor see him fashion heel or mould the cap,
And set the beaded nails in shining row,
Nor watch the alder wood to fashion grow
By knife upon his leathern-aproned lap;
Death, that doth sometimes come with shoulder-tap,
Smote down the clogger with a cruel blow.
No more his hand will fill the village street
With music of the children's pattering feet,
But they who follow where his footsteps trod
Will find that on the mountains never cease
His song of sweet preparedness and peace,
Who walked in simple piety with God.
With music of the children's pattering feet,
But they who follow where his footsteps trod
Will find that on the mountains never cease
His song of sweet preparedness and peace,
Who walked in simple piety with God.
144
The Gate of Rest.
TO THE MEMORY OF MRS. SARAH THRING AND HER SON, THEODORE.
SEPTEMBER 26TH, 28TH, 1891.
Her heart was brimmed with full a hundred years
Of patience, wisdom, tenderness and grace,
A hundred years had lined her gentle face
With smile-worn curves and furrowing for tears,
And still forlorn of all her childhood's peers
Quite uncomplainingly she held her place,
And wondered when, to crown her lengthened race,
Would come the wreath that Death in mercy bears.
Of patience, wisdom, tenderness and grace,
A hundred years had lined her gentle face
With smile-worn curves and furrowing for tears,
And still forlorn of all her childhood's peers
Quite uncomplainingly she held her place,
And wondered when, to crown her lengthened race,
Would come the wreath that Death in mercy bears.
A hundred years! a hundred years and one!
She heard a second century's advent chime,
Nor rose to go, she well had learned to wait,
Then to her side God called her eldest son
And both together entered thro' that gate
Where rest is sure—and Life has done with time.
She heard a second century's advent chime,
Nor rose to go, she well had learned to wait,
Then to her side God called her eldest son
And both together entered thro' that gate
Where rest is sure—and Life has done with time.
Mrs. Thring died in her 102nd year; her eldest son died within two days of her, and both were buried on the same day.
145
Elizabeth Atlee.
WIFE OF THE VICAR OF BUTTERMERE, WHO, WHILE ENGAGED IN MISSION WORK, DIED ON MOUNT OLIVET.
FEBRUARY 7TH, 1892.
Thou did'st not close thine eyes where to the lake
Float forth the cavern-water's echoing tones,
Nor where, snow-white upon the mountain wall,
The great ghyll leaps toward the darkened mere.
No, rather, where scarce audible at all,
The withered Cedron through its yellow stones
Downward its way doth take,
Barren and drear
Among the dead and their ten thousand bones,
Too parched and dry to wake.
Float forth the cavern-water's echoing tones,
Nor where, snow-white upon the mountain wall,
The great ghyll leaps toward the darkened mere.
No, rather, where scarce audible at all,
The withered Cedron through its yellow stones
Downward its way doth take,
Barren and drear
Among the dead and their ten thousand bones,
Too parched and dry to wake.
Death took thee by the hand,
Not in our mountain land
Where the long sunsets burn
Upon the russet fern,
And o'er the vale
The drifts of mountain snow
Fall soft and go;
And down the silent dale
Moves very slow,
With February pale,
The gentle spring,
Bidding the thrush to sing,
Bidding the ravens pair,
And clamour high in air,
Making the shy mole heave
His mountains miniature,
And from her sure retreat
And solitary seat
Commanding love to lure
Our glorious buzzard-king;
The spring that comes to greet
The shepherd on the rock
With dreams of a new flock;
The joyful spring,
With snowdrops at her feet,
And daisies soon to weave
Into a chain and ball;
The spring that o'er the hills
Will hear the cuckoo call
And by the sounding rills
Keep festival;
The spring that so makes glad
Each cottage lass and lad
With hope of daffodils.
Not in our mountain land
Where the long sunsets burn
Upon the russet fern,
146
The drifts of mountain snow
Fall soft and go;
And down the silent dale
Moves very slow,
With February pale,
The gentle spring,
Bidding the thrush to sing,
Bidding the ravens pair,
And clamour high in air,
Making the shy mole heave
His mountains miniature,
And from her sure retreat
And solitary seat
Commanding love to lure
Our glorious buzzard-king;
The spring that comes to greet
The shepherd on the rock
With dreams of a new flock;
The joyful spring,
147
And daisies soon to weave
Into a chain and ball;
The spring that o'er the hills
Will hear the cuckoo call
And by the sounding rills
Keep festival;
The spring that so makes glad
Each cottage lass and lad
With hope of daffodils.
But thou, thy hand was set
To touch the Master's hem,
To serve thy Lord and Friend
Who some time did ascend
From songless Olivet,
That holy mountain strange
That knows not any change,
Where still the white roads run
From shadow into sun,
As in those far off years
When Jesus Christ shed tears
Over Jerusalem.
There where the winter gale
Doth only make more pale
The olive gardens; there where scarce at all
Come varied seasons, save when now and then
Beyond the city wall,
Ripe figs or berries fall.
To touch the Master's hem,
To serve thy Lord and Friend
Who some time did ascend
From songless Olivet,
That holy mountain strange
That knows not any change,
Where still the white roads run
From shadow into sun,
148
When Jesus Christ shed tears
Over Jerusalem.
There where the winter gale
Doth only make more pale
The olive gardens; there where scarce at all
Come varied seasons, save when now and then
Beyond the city wall,
Ripe figs or berries fall.
And thou wert ripe,
And thou hast heard the word that is the best—
“Come unto me, ye weary, and have rest.”
Therefore we wipe
Away our tears and say Amen,
For thou did'st go to greet
Thy Lord, and kiss His feet
There where He did ascend;
And thou hast done His word,
And thou art with thy Lord,
Thy Saviour and thy Friend.
And thou hast heard the word that is the best—
“Come unto me, ye weary, and have rest.”
Therefore we wipe
Away our tears and say Amen,
For thou did'st go to greet
Thy Lord, and kiss His feet
There where He did ascend;
And thou hast done His word,
149
Thy Saviour and thy Friend.
But by sad lake and shore
In this thy dwelling place,
We shall behold thy face
And know thy gentle grace
Not ever more.
In this thy dwelling place,
We shall behold thy face
And know thy gentle grace
Not ever more.
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